


Putting All His Eggs in One Basket

by My_Alter_Ego



Series: White Collar Discussions [12]
Category: White Collar
Genre: A Cold Case, A Confession, A Moral Dilemma, An Old Theft, Before Kate’s Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, PTSD after Kate’s Death, References to the Music Box
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21623485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: The phrase, “Putting All One’s Eggs in One Basket,” means that one invests, devotes, or commits all of one's energy or resources into a single venture, opportunity, or goal. Generally, that entails putting one’s self at risk of losing everything in the event that this thing fails or does not come to fruition. This delicate dilemma is exactly where Peter finds himself when Neal admits to a crime.
Relationships: Neal Caffrey/Kate Moreau, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Series: White Collar Discussions [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1472945
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	Putting All His Eggs in One Basket

Days, weeks, and months had passed, and it was now a little over a year since Peter had taken Neal up on his offer and allowed the paroled felon to be by his side. If Peter had to give that chapter of his life a name, he would have called it _“Trying To Understand an Enigma."_ If it had been a book, it would have been filed on a library shelf under “Mystery” genre. Peter liked challenges of every ilk, be they sudokus, anagrams, codes, or crosswords puzzles, so he was sure he could unravel this human Rubik’s cube. Over time, he carefully turned page after page in that unique novel, gaining more clues and insights as he went. Slowly, but surely, he began amassing a handy list of Neal’s tells, so subtle that the ordinary observer would never have noticed. Peter could ferret out half-truths, deviousness, or tension by the set of the young man’s shoulders, the timbre of his voice, or the too bland expression on his face. It was like following a serpentine roadmap with many detours along the way. However, what Peter knew for sure was that Neal was single-minded in his quest to find Kate. Eventually, it seemed as if the key to accomplishing that feat was some arcane amber music box. 

Peter could never understand why Neal was so sure that Kate was sincere, or why he truly believed that some evil villain had his damsel in distress in their clutches. Peter suspected the young woman had her own agenda and was using Neal’s infatuation for her own gain. She seemed uncannily free to call her boyfriend when the spirit moved her, or leave little notes for him to find in Grand Central Station. How could a brilliant man like Neal not see the obvious dichotomy in the situation? Peter had actually tracked down the dark-haired siren and confronted her. His question of “Did you ever love him?” went unanswered, and that was proof enough for Peter. 

Apparently, things were ultimately moving forward to a countdown with that stupid music box as the bargaining chip that would allow Neal to grab his girl and ride off into the sunset. Peter was well aware that Neal had enlisted assistance to make that happen, and his band of merry cohorts complicated the issue. A worried mentor actually approached Mozzie directly and pleaded his case to deaf ears. “This will not end well for him,” Peter kept repeating, but it was like preaching to the choir. There was no way that Peter would call on Alex Hunter for help simply because he didn’t trust the wily young woman as far as he could throw her. He came to realize that he trusted a slick Garrett Fowler even less. Fed against Fed seemed a surreal set of circumstances, but Peter had to face facts. Fowler was up to his neck in this thing for reasons only known to himself. 

Peter also knew he was too emotionally invested in Neal. The whole affectionate caring thing had snuck up on a by-the-book Federal agent. He found himself wanting to protect Neal at all costs from other nefarious characters as well as from himself. The young man had a blind spot, and when he gave his heart away, it was without a thought to his own safety and wellbeing. Peter believed he deserved so much better—a better life as well as a better lover. When Peter’s own wife called to tell him about a strange phone call from Neal, he knew he had to be proactive. El had claimed that the short touching conversation with Neal left her feeling hollow, as if he was removing himself from her life and leaving a void behind in his place. Peter knew exactly what that call was all about. Neal was saying “Goodbye.” 

Throwing caution as well as his career in the wind, Peter confronted and physically threatened Fowler before racing to a quiet airstrip by the Hudson River. He didn’t know exactly what he could say or do to stop this carefully constructed finale to Neal’s story. Nonetheless, he found himself cajoling and pleading with a reluctant young man to stay while the first snowy feathers of an imminent blizzard started to fall. He experienced a small glimmer of hope when Neal turned back to face him, but only one word—a softly whispered “Peter”—escaped Neal’s lips before his world imploded. Peter grabbed onto a crazed lover and wrestled him to the asphalt until he finally stopped struggling. Unlike the stupendous explosion on the tarmac that ended Kate’s life, Neal’s descent into hell was like the crumbling of a tall building whose foundation had cracked and the entire edifice was slowly sinking into the ground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Now, it was just a few weeks after Kate’s fiery incineration. Peter had gone out on a very shaky limb once again, but he had managed to reclaim his CI from prison and have Neal working under his supervision. The con artist had finally returned willingly, but he was definitely not the same cocky and determinedly-focused man. He was unusually quiet, almost in a fugue state from time to time, and Peter had taken notice of the occasional fine tremors in the young man’s hands. No doubt, Neal was suffering the nightmare of flashback PTSD visions, and Peter couldn’t even begin to know how to make things better. If Elizabeth had suddenly been wrenched away from Peter in the most horrendously permanent way, the FBI agent wondered how he would go on. Maybe time would soften the sharp, heart-rending images in Neal’s mind and he could find some peace.

Peter tried to keep his CI on an even keel by giving him old cold cases to solve. He definitely didn’t want to send him out on dangerous missions in the field, at least not yet. Peter couldn’t be sure that the old Caffrey expertise would be sharp enough at this point in time to keep him safe. Of course, Peter was the one to pick and choose the years-old unsolved cases that he delegated to his partner. He refrained from saddling him with mortgage fraud; Neal hated that and the guy was suffering enough as it was. As Peter steadily leafed through the files on his desk, he hit on one that sounded interesting. Several years ago, a famed Fabergé Imperial Egg had been stolen from the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts and had never been recovered. Maybe the uniqueness of this theft would whet Neal’s appetite and pull him out of his funk.

Peter knew his art history, and was well aware that Peter Carl Fabergé had been a very talented Russian jeweler living in St. Petersburg in the late nineteenth century. He was best known for creating rather unusual treasures in the form of small eggs using precious metals and gemstones, which he presented once a year to Tsar Alexander III and his wife, Maria. Beginning in 1887, the Tsar apparently gave Fabergé complete freedom with regard to egg designs, which then became more and more elaborate. According to the tradition, not even the Tsar knew what form they would take. The only stipulation was that each one should be very unique and contain a surprise inside.

Upon the death of Alexander III, his son, Nicholas II, followed this tradition and expanded it by requesting that there be two eggs presented each Easter, one for his mother, who was eventually given a total of 30 such eggs, and one for his wife, Alexandra, who received another 20. These gift eggs became known as the "Imperial Easter Eggs." The ritual continued until the Bolshevik Rebellion occurred and the entire Romanov dynasty was executed. The eggs, as well as other historical memorabilia, were confiscated at that time by the interim government.

Today, there were many institutions around the world who had acquired a small collection of those exquisite and rare beauties, and the Virginia museum was quite proud of theirs. Seven years ago, they were horrified to discover that one of the items on display, a small 5” by 4” egg fashioned from cobalt blue lapis lazuli and festooned with seed pearls and intricate 24 karat gold scroll work, had gone missing. Inside the discretely hinged top of the treasure had been another tiny solid gold egg nestled on a satin pillow.

Initially, it had been a matter for the Virginia State Police, and they had done their due diligence while investigating the theft. Eventually, they came up empty handed and suspected that the small, delicate miniature had been smuggled out of Virginia and sold elsewhere. That was when the FBI was brought in since the stolen merchandise had probably crossed state lines. Unfortunately, the FBI hadn’t been any more successful in finding the missing item than the Virginia detectives.

Peter quickly shuffled through the police reports on the case. The assigned detectives had doggedly conducted extensive interviews with everyone employed by the Fine Arts Museum. They had questioned curators, docents, and every member of the maintenance and security staff. Nobody pinged their radar, and they had nothing to go on. Peter took a quick look at the long list of names on the interrogation summary and, all at once, he froze. Halfway down the page, in bold black ink, was a very familiar name embedded in the cleaning crew column, and that name was none other than Nicholas Halden, one of Neal’s aliases that the New York FBI hadn’t yet uncovered at the time.

Peter swore under his breath. Why did this damning bit of evidence have to suddenly land in his lap now? It was the worst possible time to confront a broken man, almost like whipping a dead horse. A dedicated Federal Agent was torn. He didn’t want Neal to go back to prison over the past theft of a stupid blue trinket meant for the spoiled pleasure and avarice of some long dead Russian oligarch. But he couldn’t ignore what was a fact. A brazen robbery had taken place, and Neal was most likely the thief.

Peter finally closed the file and locked the damning thing in his desk drawer. While standing outside on the balcony, he gazed down at his CI. Neal was supposed to be checking VIN numbers of some Maserati sports cars that had mysterious vanished from the unlading inventory after a container ship docked in the Maritime Port of New York last month. He had his head resting on one fisted hand and his eyes were at half-mast. Peter doubted he was really reading anything on his computer screen. A troubled mentor slowly approached and stood in front of his responsibility.

“Neal, why don’t you take a break and come to lunch with me,” Peter said quietly. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Neal abruptly startled and it was obvious that he hadn’t noticed Peter’s approach. That was so out of character for the perceptive con man who always was aware of everything that went on around him.

“Thanks for the invite, Peter, but I’m not really hungry,” Neal begged off.

“Did you eat anything today?” Peter asked gently.

“June puts out a really big breakfast, as you well know,” Neal quickly sidestepped that question by not actually answering.

“Uh huh,” Peter said without further comment.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” the young man asked with guileless eyes.

“It can keep for later,” Peter finally replied.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter went home at the end of the workday and wrestled with his conscience. Finally, he threw in the towel and berated himself for his reticence in facing this troubling issue head on. Finally, he drove to Riverside Drive and was knocking on the door of Neal’s loft at 9 pm. Unfortunately, he wasn’t getting any response. He checked his phone app and it indicated that Neal should be inside, so Peter pushed the door open and walked right in. The room was dim and quiet, and after his eyes adjusted, he meandered through the small kitchenette and spied a carryout pizza box on the table. When Peter lifted the lid, the entire pie was intact but stone cold, and there was unappetizing congealing oil on the cardboard from the melted cheese. Peter continued to peruse the small space and finally managed to make out Neal’s form lying face down on the oversized bed. He was still in the same clothes he had worn to the office, except for his suit coat and tie. It appeared that he had flopped down in an apparently drunken stupor, if the empty wine bottle on the floor beside him was any indication.

Peter was again weighed down by guilt. He had seen all the symptoms of a deep depression in his friend—apathy, loss of appetite, debilitating fatigue, the inability to concentrate—and he had acted like a naïve fool just hoping they would go away and stop plaguing a bereaved man who had lost the love of his life. He should have insisted that Neal get counseling instead of self-medicating with alcohol to make the pain lessen. Now, here Peter was, insensitively about to heap more troubles on someone who was on the edge of a dauntingly steep emotional cliff. But what choice did he really have?

With a sigh, he approached the sleeping man and began vigorously shaking his shoulder. Eventually, Neal moaned and forced himself up on his elbows. He seemed surprised to see Peter standing beside him scowling. “What’s goin’ on, Peter?” he muttered. “What time is it? Did I oversleep and I’m late getting to the office?”

“Neal, it’s 9 pm at night, not 9 am in the morning,” Peter clarified. “I’m here for that little talk that’s long overdue.”

The half-in-the-bag young man lumbered to his feet and staggered over to the kitchen area. He ran the faucet and doused his face with cold water before drying it with a paper towel. When Neal caught sight of the pizza box, he picked it up with a shiver and deposited it in the trash. Only then did he pull out a chair and blearily face his keeper.

“So what’s so important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” he asked flatly.

Peter took a deep breath. “Neal, it isn’t a sign of weakness to ask for help when you need it.”

“I’m fine,” the young man immediately objected.

“You are anything but fine, Buddy,” Peter said softly. “Denial isn’t going to cut it. You don’t eat, you have no energy, and you can’t concentrate.”

“I go to the office every day and do my job,” Neal said in a petulant voice.

“Your job is to solve cases, Neal, and you haven’t managed that in weeks,” Peter laid it on the line.

Neal snorted. “They’re cold cases, if you’ll recall, and it isn’t all that easy to unravel knots that were pulled tight years ago,” he said in his own defense.

“Well, let me hand you one that maybe you can solve,” Peter said quietly as he placed the Fabergé Egg case file onto the table between them. He then proceeded to pull out a colored photograph of the stolen item and fix his CI with an unwavering gaze.

Neal glanced down at the picture and then stared into Peter’s narrowed eyes. He remained silent until Peter put a direct question to him. “Did you steal this from the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts seven years ago?”

“Yeah, I did,” Neal answered quietly without any equivocation. He was never going to tell Peter a direct lie.

Those three little softly uttered words with no attempt at misdirection slammed into Peter’s soul. “Damn it, Neal,” he whispered, “this makes absolutely no sense to me. Why take a stupid little trinket when there were stupendously valuable paintings hanging in that museum? The Fabergé creation had never been monetarily appraised but it certainly couldn’t stack up beside a Matisse or a Picasso. What possessed you to snatch a little blue egg?”

The answer Neal provided shocked Peter. “I took it because Kate loved it.”

“Kate loved it?” Peter repeated like a mynah bird.

Neal shrugged. “Yeah, Mozzie, Kate, and I had gone down to Virginia to case the museum. Like you said, there were some really valuable paintings being exhibited, but when Kate saw the Fabergé collection, she couldn’t stop thinking of that delicate little lapis creation.”

“And you wanted to get it for her to keep her happy,” Peter surmised. “Neal, you’re one of the most gifted forgers in the world. Why didn’t you make her a replica out of enamel with acrylic little pearls and base metal fret work covered in gold paint? It would have been just as beautiful. Hell, you probably could have swapped out your piece for the real egg and nobody would have noticed a thing.”

Neal shrugged again. “Peter, back in those days we were nomads moving from place to place. We didn’t have a home base where Mozzie could set up a workshop with all the complicated equipment I would have needed. It was just easier to lift the prize, give it to Kate, and then enjoy seeing her smile. We had lost everything after a slick business tycoon we were working for absconded with everyone’s money. I wanted to make things better for her because she deserved it. I wanted Kate to have the real thing, not some cheap imitation. I had been an imitation figure in her life for a long time, so I needed to make it up to her.”

“So whatever happened to it?” Peter asked softly.

Neal suddenly looked melancholy. “I’d like to think she kept it,” he answered just as quietly, “even after she left me. I wanted to imagine it was a link between us when we were apart. I guess in my mind I hoped that maybe she might have packed it into her suitcase when we were going to start a new life together away from here,” he ended sadly.

Peter sighed and blew out a frustrated breath. The young man seated before him was such a sadly endearing romantic, and, unfortunately, that had been his undoing. As Neal looked up at him expectantly, a conflicted FBI agent said in an even tone, “Look, Buddy, there’s a lot riding on this and I don’t have any answers for you right now concerning your future. I’m going home, and after I leave I want you to get out of those clothes, take a shower, and then maybe scramble yourself some eggs. Lay off the wine and drink some orange juice or herbal tea. I’ll expect you in the office tomorrow, clear-eyed and sober. We’ll talk then.”

Peter trudged tiredly down the three flights of stairs. He sat in his car as he pondered the dilemma. As if on autopilot, his car took him back to the FBI building. There were just a few stragglers on the graveyard shift, probies paying their dues. Peter strode towards the archived storage area with the Virginia Museum file in his hand. He pulled open a few random drawers and then, without hesitation, buried the evidence of Neal’s past crime so deep that it would never be found. In his heart he knew it wasn’t the ethical thing to do, but, on an emotional and compassionate level, maybe it was.

Later that evening, Peter made an after-hours call to his own personal psychologist. The man had been of great help to him over the years when he had been troubled by some problems. When Peter finished the call, he somehow felt more hopeful. He wondered how Neal would respond when he told the depressed man that he had his own appointment with the therapist the following day. Maybe Peter was putting all his eggs in one basket, just as Neal had done when he believed in a happily-ever-after with Kate. But Peter’s motives were more crucially reactive. He was investing all of his well-intentioned efforts into saving Neal from himself. In his heart, Peter knew the young con man was worth it, so a determined friend and mentor was willing to take the risk.


End file.
